#The creative burnout is real...

[lunarosewood23]

Me: I wanna create!

Brain: =_=

Me: ...

Brain: Fuck off, I wanna sleeeeeeeep!!!

Me: But...create?

Brain: New muse is a demanding bitch.

Me: I wasn't even gonna go there!

Brain: No! I'm sleeping!

Me: ._.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🖋️ You Don’t Need to “Write Every Day” to Be a Real Writer (and Other Guilt-Crushing Truths)

Let’s make this one loud: 📣 You are not a failed writer because you didn’t open your Google Doc today.

We’ve all heard the advice, write every day, build the habit, protect the streak, treat it like brushing your teeth or doing crunches or whatever metaphor productivity Twitter is pushing this week.

But here’s the thing: You are not a factory. Your brain is not a faucet. And writing isn’t a moral behavior.

─────── ✦ ───────

🚫 Daily Writing is Not a Badge of Legitimacy

The "write every day" rule? It wasn’t invented for you. It came from a very specific kind of writer.... usually full-time, no kids, no chronic illness, no 60-hour day job, no executive dysfunction, that lives in a world made of schedules and uninterrupted mornings.

You? You’re probably doing your best between classes, during night shifts, after crying, before therapy, while microwaving pizza rolls.

If you’re writing at all, you’re already in the game. No daily streak required. No blood oath to the Scrivener gods. You don’t need to bleed ink to prove you’re real.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧠 Writing is Mental, Even When It’s Invisible

Plotting in the shower. Thinking about your character’s tragic backstory at red lights. Whispering fake arguments into your Notes app at 3am. Staring at the ceiling replaying one scene until it rots.

It all counts.

Writing is thinking, not just typing. That mental compost pile? That’s how the good stuff grows. You don’t owe your worth to a word count. Some days, the work looks like a blank page and a brain on fire.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔄 Rest Is Part of the Process, Not a Detour From It

Let me say this plainly: Burnout is not proof of effort.

You are allowed to pause. You are allowed to stop mid-project. You are allowed to write in bursts. You are allowed to write for a week and disappear for a month.

Writing is a relationship. It has seasons. It expands and contracts. You are not a robot with a daily quota, you’re a person carrying a whole fictional world inside you. Let yourself be human.

─────── ✦ ───────

📆 Consistency Helps--But Define It For Yourself

Do some writers thrive with routines? Sure. But routine =/= daily.

Try this: → “I write every weekend morning when I can.” → “I jot down notes during my commute.” → “I commit to one hour a week, guilt-free.” → “I take two weeks off after every chapter.” → “I only write during November and spiral gloriously.”

Build a rhythm that actually matches your energy, not one that shames you for not vibing like a full-time author in a lakeside cabin with nothing to do but word vomit and sip tea.

─────── ✦ ───────

💌 You’re Still a Real Writer (Even When You’re Not Producing)

You don’t need:

a finished draft

a daily goal

a growing WIP

a thriving project

a clever new idea

…to be a writer.

You only need:

the drive to tell a story

the will to try again

the love of the craft, even when it doesn’t love you back

You’re a real writer if you write sometimes. You’re a real writer if you write badly. You’re a real writer if you wrote once and it changed you.

─────── ✦ ───────

✨ Guilt Kills Stories Faster Than “Laziness” Ever Will

You’re not lazy. You’re probably: → Overwhelmed → Tired → Burnt out → Depressed → Distracted by survival → Caught in perfectionism’s death grip

And the guilt? It doesn’t make you more productive. It just sinks its teeth into your confidence until you start to believe you’ve “fallen behind” on something that’s supposed to be yours.

The best thing you can do for your writing life? Protect your joy. That spark. That curiosity. That itch to build something from nothing.

That matters more than any streak.

─────── ✦ ───────

📣 Final Truths (Pin These to Your Soul):

Missing writing days is not failure.

Your process is not wrong just because it’s not loud.

You are not in a race.

You are not a fraud.

You are allowed to come back whenever.

Writing is not a productivity metric. It’s a craft. It’s a calling. It’s a weird little ritual.

And it’ll still be there when you’re ready.

See you on the page, whether that’s tomorrow, or next week, or next season.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // chaotic writing realist. anti-guilt gremlin. your local plot ghost.

📜 prompts for gothic girlies, literary lads, and cursed creatives

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

[girl-named-matty]

Hi everyone 💕

So some of you may have noticed that I've been posting a little less and this is because I feel quite burnt out. I know I've just come back from a hiatus a few weeks ago but so much has already happened since then and I am feel the effects of exhaustion lol. And of course, exhaustion has made me unmotivated or I simply just have not had the time.

I'm not going on another break or anything but I felt like I should be transparent because creative burnout is real, especially when irl is just crazy. So never feel guilty about not being able to do what you love as often. I'd still like to post & interact but if I post/interact less, that is why.

I love you all so much & thank you for your continual support! 🥰

[bonegloss]

You're not a failed artist.

After over almost two decades on the internet, entering various art communities and establishing my online presence, I've noticed something.

The persistent idea that you've "failed" as an artist if you get a "real job" will not go away.

This, for the longest time, permeated my electronic meat slab and nestled in deeply MUCH to my detriment . For years I fought with myself over this idea. Self-flagellating and noisy, negative thoughts were almost suffocating because I was unable to Do Art As A Job consistently and efficiently enough to maintain a living off of it. Between navigating life for almost 30 years not knowing I was autistic (and all that entails) and trying to turn something I love into something I could make a living off of, it was a vicious and repetitive cycle of trying something new, getting burned out, entering a depressive state, climbing out of it, rinse and repeat. This is clearly unsustainable, especially now that I am more independent in my adult life; bills aren't going to wait for me to get out of my depressive funks. Even having jobs and still making art on the side today, this idea is still nestled in there, nagging me sometimes.

Would I like to make a living off of my art? Of course! Would it be even better if I was supported from making stuff from my own IP's? You fucking bet. But I know how I operate, I know I can't personally do that (yet? maybe?). Now, I realize not everyone can just go get a job, and I don't want this to come off as a rally cry to Just Go Out and Work (I know many creative people are disabled or have other reasons they cannot work), but I do want to stress that its okay if art needs to remain more of a hobby than a job. It is okay if you cannot sustain yourself solely as a living artist. Over the years, I've burned myself out so god damn hard and have watched others work themselves to (near) death or can barely scrape by because of this incessant feeling that we need to be doing art 100% of the time to have "made it". It is hurting us both physically and emotionally to keep this shit up.

Going forward, we have to do better. There is no shame in having an income that is not dependent on the things you make. I think that it can help alleviate a lot of stress and fatigue that can become associated with creating (and thus, making it hard to do something you love). We need to learn to be kinder to ourselves and unlearn comparing our experiences to what we see from other creative peers on social media. Its hard, finding work sucks ass, and no job will be perfect, but if it can help you survive a little easier and rekindle your relationship for creating the things you love to make, it'll make a world of difference.

You are not a failed artist. You're doing what you can so you can keep doing what you love.

[riotbrrrd]

Regarding the autism metaphor post though I have to be honest sometimes it IS just missing the meaning of metaphors, especially when you're a child who hasn't learned what common metaphors mean. Sorry to throw off OP's data but when I was 12 and loved ghosts and demons it was a problem for me to hear about people "battling demons" or "being haunted" because I thought there was gonna be "real" demons and ghosts in there. Many perceived horror movies turned out to just be psychological dramas about substance abuse. Imagine my disappointment

[petrow1tch]

They weren't lying, this psychological recovery journey got hands

[the-dangerous-mute-lunatic]

With how much I've been sketching YOS over the last few days, I did want to ask, do y'all enjoy it? What's been your favorite part?

[alive-gh0st]

Hey y’all…

Soooooo I really tried to pull off a surprise drop of multiple pieces at once… but unfortunately life said “no ❤️” and hit me with another round of family crisis, just in time for my upcoming vacation yayyy!

With my flight creeping closer and my mental levels at a personal high, I need to shift my focus to planning, packing, and pretending to be emotionally stable.

So—no uploads for at least a week (possibly more if my schedule stays hellish). If I somehow find a pocket of peace, I will post—but no promises :(

I am genuinely so sorry to those waiting on updates (I see you, I love you, I AM writing—just slower than I’d hoped). That being said, thank you for being patient with me always 💔

See y’all soon! Hopefully with tan lines and new content‼️

(btw I’ll still be around to answer comments and anon asks, so feel free to send stuff in like always—buh bye for now 🫶)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[holocene-sims]

next // previous

august 16, 2021 11:00 p.m. grandma ong's house

there’s a strangeness to a quiet enclave in a bustling metropolis, unexpected in the same manner as grant and henry’s long, unbroken brotherhood. nothing about the baseline rustle of neighbors carrying in paper grocery sacks and kids kicking a soccer ball resembles the eternal merry-go-round of life–max-capacity subway cars, clueless and loud tourists, and locals who drift through their day–just down the road. and yet above this neighborhood–and the entire sprawling city–hangs a common thread, a bluish hazy night sky.

“that was wild,” henry says, suppressed laughter bursting forth from deep in his chest, “all day everyone’s defaulted to speaking english because, well, look at you, and you even had me fooled. i actually forgot you kind of speak basic korean."

“the inner machinations of my mind are an enigma.”

henry rolls his eyes dramatically but in the same split second, throws an arm around grant’s shoulders.

“i was afraid that soup was going to fly out of your mouth.” grant returns the gesture, though it requires him to lean down so as to not smother henry’s face instead. “too close for comfort.”

“well, in my defense, i was not expecting you to reply to my grandma asking me, “daehyun, i haven’t seen your friend since your wedding. how did you meet again?”

grant shrugs. “we met on a playground twenty-four years ago.”

“on my very first weekend as a resident of the semi-good ol’ US of A. in the opposite situation. i remember being so pissed that my parents made me go out to ‘make friends’ that weekend. not moving, mind you, but making friends. i guess they were psychics, though, because apparently, it didn’t bother you that i didn’t speak your language for at least a couple weeks.”

“people say i could talk to a wall.”

henry laughs again. “you could. you’re very chatty.”

“did it bother you that i wrote you some really, really, really shitty letters in korean in the early days based on online translations i found?”

“no, that was sweet.” no question about it–the joy in henry’s eyes is determined. “they were definitely horrendous, but it’s the thought that counted. you could do better now. oh, and i think i still have all those letters. i should. i did box them up when i moved out of my parents’ house.”

they were, all things considered, never very much alike, beyond the fact they both liked cats but weren’t allowed to have any. henry’s mom was allergic, but grant’s parents despised pets. otherwise, they were polar opposites. grant always liked math and science, wanted to work with airplanes, and preferred to spend his free time with others playing tabletop RPGs and computer games; henry always liked art and history, wanted to be a photographer, and preferred to be left alone to his vintage film camera and pottery. grant’s parents raged when he selected aviation over medicine; henry’s parents and grandparents, all artists, were delighted by his dreams of photography. moreover, grant selectively speaks his mind, while henry rarely minces words.

and still–

the shrill honk of a car off in the distance disturbs grant’s thoughts.

“you really could talk to a wall, but hey, why did you approach me on the swing set that day? you were already busy hanging out with your sisters. and your cousins. why me?”

and still, the two have fused into one. the world turned upside down; grant paints these days, henry has long been a willing dungeons and dragons player, and separation from one another is like losing half your body. if henry walked away now–ended this messy half-hug early–grant would turn to ash.

“well,” grant begins, drawing out the suspense with an exaggerated sigh, “first of all...”

[purplereadingenthusiast]

    Alador builds. He experiments. He tinkers. Day after day he spends in his lab, only leaving for food and bathroom breaks, plus the occasional promotion show. At this point, he even sleeps down there, long after his team—now only comprised of eight other people—has gone home. It’s easier that way, he reasons, with Odalia constantly requiring him to work; this way he never has to leave, never has to bear her reprimands that drain him as much as his never-ending work schedule. He feels like one of the abomatons he spends all his time creating, going through the motions of his monotonous, day-to-day life robotically as if his body and mind are comprised of goop and metal materials.

    Sometimes, when he’s on a rare break and doesn’t know what to do with himself, he thinks about his younger self, and how excited and passionate he was about abominations and mechanics. How he was rarely spotted without his goggles, inspecting or creating or testing something, driven by curiosity. Sometimes Alador wonders how his younger self would react to what he’s turned into now, how the light and laughter that was his eyes is hidden behind dullness and dark eye bags. How would he explain it to himself, if he asked?

    He always brushes the thought away as soon as it comes. It’s silly to reminisce on the past, he tells himself. There’s no point of pondering what could have happened, because it didn’t happen and it never will. He knows he will likely stay this way his whole life, or as long as he stays with Odalia, which is essentially the same thing. He can’t leave. She needs him as much as he needs her, and it’s easier to continue living this way than to needlessly fight it and somehow make it worse for himself.

    His palisman, Patches, squeaks at him, breaking him out of his thoughts and scurrying towards the counter, where his newest project lies in wait. Alador sighs from deep in his chest, tiredness causing his whole body to protest as he walks over to the counter, giving Patches an ear scratch and putting his goggles on.

    Once again, Alador is little more than a machine.

[hedgehog-a-day]

your hedgehogs make me so happy

112: smiley!

glad they can still bring some joy (even if they are not as frequent as they used to be)

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

📉 The 5 Worst Writing Advice Bits You Might Still Believe

(Let’s Burn Them Together)

You’ve been lied to. Or at least, misled by well-meaning chaos goblins with strong opinions and a Twitter account.

Here’s a lovingly aggressive breakdown of writing “advice” you need to kick into a volcano immediately:

─────── ✦ ───────

“Write Every Day or You’re Not a Real Writer”

🗑️ Into the fire it goes.

This is advice built for guilt, not creativity. You’re a writer if you write. That includes:

Writing on weekends.

Writing in your Notes app once a week.

Writing one scene per month.

Thinking intensely about a story while doing literally anything else.

Consistency helps, sure. But daily output? Not the only path. And definitely not a moral obligation.

✨ Alternative: Write when you can, track what works, and let your process breathe.

─────── ✦ ───────

“If You’re Stuck, You Just Don’t Want It Bad Enough”

This is the kind of advice that sounds motivational until it destroys your relationship with writing.

Being stuck doesn’t mean you’re lazy or not passionate. It could mean: → You’re burnt out. → Your plot needs restructuring. → Your brain is full of static. → You’re scared to get it wrong.

✨ Alternative: Ask what your block is protecting you from. Then fix the problem, not your willpower.

─────── ✦ ───────

“Kill Your Darlings”

Yes, let’s just delete everything with emotional weight and pretend that makes it deep.

Look, editing matters. But this advice gets misused constantly. Killing your darlings doesn’t mean gutting every beautiful or weird or vulnerable thing in your prose. It means cutting what doesn’t serve the story.

✨ Alternative: Kill what doesn’t carry weight. Keep what resonates. Be ruthless with purpose, not performance.

─────── ✦ ───────

“Avoid Adverbs at All Costs”

This one was born in grammar hell.

Adverbs aren’t the enemy. Lazy adverbs are. But you know what else is lazy? Blanket bans. Adverbs can tighten a sentence, clarify emotion, or give rhythm when used intentionally.

✨ Alternative: Use adverbs when they do something specific. Don’t fear them, control them.

─────── ✦ ───────

“Your First Draft Has to Be Good or Don’t Bother”

This one? Evil.

It’s the fast track to perfectionism paralysis. First drafts aren’t supposed to be good. They’re supposed to exist. You can’t fix a blank page. You can fix a bad one.

✨ Alternative: Let your draft be messy. Be cringe. Be excessive. You’ll sculpt later. Right now? Just build the block of marble.

─────── ✦ ───────

Final thoughts from your local chaos scribe:

→ You don’t need to suffer to earn the title “writer.” → Your process is allowed to look different. → You are not broken because someone’s advice didn’t work for you. → Not everything that sounds “productive” is healthy. → Burn the rulebook. Build a toolkit instead.

—rin t. // writing advice that doesn’t suck™ // thewriteadviceforwriters

[link-eats-rocks]

The Best of Boys

[damnbtway]

ea waffling

the horrors of putting out so much creative content u make something uve literally already made i see u erik but icl its incredibly funny to me LMFAO

ill never complain at another gavin video tho i am but a weak man and also a fan that likes to be serviced

[savage-rhi]

Mending Shadows // Chapter 33

Summary:

Y/N was a simple Scavenger of Lucis, until meeting a deadly blow at the hands of an infected creature. At the crossroads of death, they are found by Niflheim’s cryptic Chancellor with his own agenda. Now bonded to Ardyn Izunia, and tossed into the world of Niflheim, Y/N struggles to cope with their new life as an Imperial Icon all the while battling their feelings toward their fate and that of Ardyn’s.

Click here to read on AO3

Y/N’s mind was suspended in darkness. 

The passage of time was an elusive concept that slipped through their soul like grains of sand in an hourglass. There was no such thing as the external world. There was no Eos, no Niflheim, no Lucis, no Ardyn--only a void that unfolded with a surreal fluidity. Memories couldn’t plant their roots in this place. Nothing flourished here, except two things: presence, and song. 

Although not aware of themself, Y/N latched onto the melancholic tune that somehow wormed its way into the dark to meet them. The idea of colors slowly began to return in splotches of vibrant blues and purples and vibrated against the sound, creating hues beyond the spectrum of the waking world. Little by little, like a rock being polished by the waves of the ocean, imagination and existence blurred into an ethereal dance. 

A glimmer of light broke through Y/N’s eyelids. It tugged at the fringes of their awareness. Everything was blurry, but they could detect movement. Shapes wandered around their peripheral, and so did voices. They couldn’t make out what was being said, but felt… something. 

It was hard to put words to tone much less decipher the delicate touch that would occasionally glide across their face, squeezing their right hand when all ministrations were complete. The simple ritual was conducted by only what Y/N could perceive as an entity. Shortly thereafter, would the song emerge and play it’s gloomy notes. Though Y/N couldn’t comprehend the movement of time, they had a feeling the entity had done this on numerous occasions, and they felt warm at the thought that something beyond recognition regarded them. 

The process repeated itself many times over. Just as Y/N would be on the precipice of awakening, they’d fall back into dark shores. Only peering through when they once again could hear the dreary song, and watch as colors tried to choreograph it's energy. 

A chord struck and reverberated all through the void, and Y/N’s consciousness suddenly remembered the name of the music. 

Shiva’s Lament… 

Y/N felt themself once more peering out from the dark and taking a step back into the waking world. The corner of their eyes still heavy with fog, Y/N’s ears followed the poignant timbre of sound that felt both like a warm hug and a haunting cry. That’s when Y/N’s exhausted gaze fell upon Ardyn, watching as his body sway while he adjusted the bow against the strings of a violin. His fingertips delicately moved against the neck of the instrument to seamlessly connect notes that longed for each other’s company like lost lovers. 

Shiva’s Lament…Y/N repeated in mind, as the memory of their debut night in the Vixen carded its fingertips against their brain. Their eyes traveled over Ardyn with awe, for his hair looked like whisps of flames against a glow of light that emitted from his body. Y/N was surprised to see him without his jacket and scarves. He was dressed so casually that it went against his nature, but it never once took away how graceful Ardyn looked from Y/N’s point of view. 

Gods, he was so beautiful in the glow that words couldn’t describe it. If it were possible to move their limbs, Y/N would’ve reached out to him.

Like heartstrings being carefully tended to, Ardyn made the violin weep with such a soulful quality that Y/N could feel themself drifting back to sleep. They didn’t want to be lured back into the dark. No, they wanted to latch onto the flowing melody and let Ardyn guide them through the storm; like he had done at the wedding when they danced. Like how he carried them through Outpost 98. He was always there at that midpoint between life and death for Y/N. A personal reaper who offered some shreds of comfort before the finale. And like the grim itself coming to collect his toll, Y/N succumbed to Ardyn’s song and went back to the void. 

There was nothing but dreamless sleep for what felt like ages, and Y/N awoke once more but with a sharp gasp like a newborn babe taking in air for the first time. As Y/N adjusted to the world, their labored breaths became calm until there was a steady flow. They could no longer hear their pulse rattling inside their skull, and took this moment to gather everything around them. 

Niflheim…The familiar colors all throughout the room assured Y/N they were no longer in Altissa, but this wasn’t their usual sleeping quarters. The distinct smell of rich spices and musk was strong. They could feel it leeching out of the blankets that covered them. It wasn’t unpleasant by any stretch, but it added a layer of confusion to Y/N as they carefully rose up from the bed. 

As the blankets bundled around Y/N's waist, they noticed the black and red coloring of the sheets. This was Ardyn's bed. This was his scent.

Y/N dryly swallowed, and noticed they weren't alone. Slouched upon a chair a few feet away, Ardyn lay motionless. His arms and legs both crossed with his head leaning against the top rail. Soft strands of breath left his mouth, and Y/N adjusted and crawled on the mattress toward him. As Y/N got a better look, they noticed how wearied he was. More of the wrinkles around Ardyn's eyes were prominent as were dark circles. He looked as if he had stayed up for several nights in a row, and hadn't a moment of reprieve. Y/N wondered if he was sick, and the idea made their skin crawl as they worriedly searched him. It was so peculiar to see signs of stress in Ardyn's features, given he was permanently stuck in his thirties.

Sighing in relief at not seeing anything else, Y/N decided not to entertain the thought any further. They tried to remember how they ended up here, but alas nothing came forth. There was not a speck of a hint, minus how delicious the red velvet cinnamon rolls tasted in the morning after leaving the beach. Y/N felt that their mind was permanently on a dead television channel, akin to the annoying tingle of compressed nerves they felt down their arms and legs. 

“Gods be damned…” Y/N whispered.

Maybe after eating breakfast, everyone went back home. Maybe they had jetlag from riding the airship and needed to sleep it off. Maybe nothing nefarious happened. Maybe they had one too many drinks at the wedding and passed out. Maybe in their drunken state, they dreamt of swimming in the ocean with Ardyn. Maybe...

“We both know that’s a lie,” Y/N murmured to themself while they looked upon Ardyn’s sleeping form.

Whatever happened in Altissa, Y/N knew they had been out cold for a long time. Something had to have gone down, or Ardyn wouldn't have been here. Not like this. 

Growling out of frustration, Y/N could only recollect small fragments of seeing Ardyn playing the violin. With how blank their head felt, they wondered if perhaps that too was only a dream. A fleeting thought that sounded beautiful and offered them comfort during a near death experience. With how weak they were in body, it made sense to Y/N that their brain would latch onto something like that.

Y/N suddenly noticed an object that was sitting in Ardyn’s lap. Shifting their legs so that they were dangling off the bed, Y/N curiously observed the open leather bound book. Marks from what appeared to be pencil was scattered around on the pages, creating an image Y/N couldn't decipher from this angle. Wanting to get a better look, Y/N slowly stood up and stumbled while walking toward Ardyn. Their body quaked as gravity made itself known again. Gritting their teeth, Y/N shuffled toward the chair and thanked whatever was listening that they need only take a few steps forward. With each lift of their feet, Y/N's calves felt as if they had been crushed under rocks. As they drew close, Y/N evened out their breath and gently reached for the book, being mindful not to bump Ardyn all the while. 

With shaking fingertips, Y/N brought the book to their face and quietly observed. The first few pages were littered with intricate drawings of figures and faces. People Ardyn had no doubt seen around Niflheim, or maybe even somewhere from his past. The warm glow that drifted through the curtains nearby illuminated the drawings further. Free flowing gestures accentuated the little imperfections people naturally had. There was character to every face, and every limb as if Ardyn's mind was a camera that had taken several shots of people in motion. They were surprised that a hand pulled this feat, let alone that Ardyn had any artistic endeavor. 

“Wow,” Y/N smiled as they whispered to themself. 

Page after page was filled to the brim, and Y/N wondered if anyone knew about the Chancellor’s creative pursuits. Mid-thought, they flipped to the next page and froze. The subject jumped out at them immediately like a reflection out of time. Y/N was staring at themself. He had drawn a portrait of them. 

Mouth falling open, Y/N realized there was more than just one. Their eyes drifted from sketch to sketch, and as more was revealed, Y/N felt astonishment tightly grasp their heart. Disbelief danced on the edge of reason as Y/N flipped a few more pages, revealing more of themself. 

Ardyn had acquired every nuance of Y/N's persona with the stroke of a pencil. There were smiles and frowns, comedic poses, and moody postures. Moments of vulnerability that only the artist himself could've witnessed firsthand. Even among half finished doodles he had clearly given up on, their essence remained intact. All the while, the subject had been completely oblivious to how immersed the artist was as he captured quiet intensities and delicate manner. 

This somehow felt more intimate than coming across the contents of one's diary, and Y/N blushed as they forced themself back to the first page. 

The room suddenly felt warmer than usual as Y/N had a deeper understanding of Ardyn's observations of humans. Each sketch was a silent testimony to how he truly paid attention to all the little nuances most took for granted. It was scary how he could get into someone's head, let alone commit a wink or a grimace to memory via graphite and parchment. It also enamored Y/N, especially when they realized some of their portraits went as far back as their debut night. Disbelief and other emotions swirled inside of them, realizing these drawings captured unspoken feelings Ardyn kept hidden from the world. 

Biting the inside of their lip, Y/N winced out a weak grunt. Their stomach twisted in a painful knot. Dehydration finally clawed to the surface, and Y/N carefully put the sketchbook back in Ardyn’s lap before limping away to seek something to quench their thirst. 

Ardyn was lost in his own world between worlds. He didn’t register Y/N had awoken, nor was he disturbed by them tinkering with his sketchbook. Everything outside of his head wasn’t a matter of consequence. Not when he felt so weak to the point of entering a period of temporary hibernation. If Ardyn were aware, this would’ve been day three of this mini holiday he had unintentionally succumbed to. That being said, he had been granted anything but rest.

After the fiasco in Atlissa--and dealing with the political consequences of the event--Ardyn had long sought shelter amongst the whispering commentary of daemons and the poor unfortunate souls he had consumed ages ago. Their voices forged several paths before him as he combed through the past week and a half. He cut through memories of conversations, and meetings--putting them into boxes and categories he could summon at a later time.

In this dark space, Ardyn was also seeking answers to questions. Trying in vain to find a point in time where he perhaps mistook an event as insignificant. The first attack on the House of the Courts made perfect sense. The arrival of several Imperial fleets had pushed people past an already unstable edge with the betrothal to boot. Ardyn couldn’t fault the citizens of Accordo for that, for even he sympathized to a degree with their hatred toward the empire. It was easy for him to understand how the embers of men could grow into a forest fire, yet unlike a voracious flame, they didn’t get far without a clear sense of direction. However, he couldn’t let bygones be bygones with the secondary attack. Not when it was so personal that it dare felt insulting. 

A fleeting glimpse of a meeting Ardyn had with investigators tip toed around his conscious. It had been evaluated that the coup had been sprung by a Lucian faction soliciting aid from Accordo’s anti-imperialist groups to achieve an ulterior goal. Of course this faction was MedZin, and Ardyn ensured that little tidbit was expunged off official documentation via bribery of monetary gain.  Of course he spun a believable lie to Aldercapt and the Imperial Counsel, that this ensemble's primary objective was to cause upheaval and undermine the empires national relations. Of course Y/N and other Higher Imperials were targeted to deliver the message--and of course, Aldercapt was pissed off to no end. He spent a great deal verbally lashing out against the surviving ambassadors for not having the foresight to take better charge of security. 

Ardyn managed to sate Aldercapt's tempter tantrum, and settled down the unease amongst his colleagues with diplomatic solutions. He extinguished many fires that day, yet he couldn't put one to rest and that was the truth of the situation. That day of reckoning and bloodshed had been wasted on one simple task: to ensure Y/N's capture. 

A daemonic voice lulled Ardyn to another memory. While Verstael's associates checked to see if Y/N had imbued Tuti with the scourge, Ardyn had studiously interviewed her. The poor thing would live another day if she could get through her recent trauma. He thought the endeavor of a formal checkup was a pointless effort on Verstael's end, for Ardyn knew Y/N didn't have the capability of infecting humans. Not when he himself personally suppressed such an ability via influencing the hivemind--just like he had been doing to Y/N's memories. Making sure the locks had been well fortified. 

Through Tuti’s ramblings, Ardyn confirmed some long held suspicions about why Y/N was specifically targeted. MedZin, as far as they knew, believed Y/N to be Adagium and thus responsible for their main research facility being compromised. It was clear as day. After all, it was Ardyn himself who left a trail of bread crumbs to Y/N's feet, ensuring the fault for the damage would befall their reputation. He had put a target on their back to wash his hands clean of the sins he committed in Lucis during that time. By all accounts, Ardyn should've been ecstatic that his former nemeses weren't seeking him out, however, he felt anything but contentment. 

Y/N was supposed to be the lamb. A sacrifice to sate the sanguine tongue of Gods and bless him a boon to further his true path, and yet when it came time to reap the lamb for slaughter, Ardyn didn’t have the stomach for it. Like an impetuous child who couldn’t fathom barbaric acts, he had taken the innocent creature into his arms and ran away from responsibility, knowing full well he didn’t have the means to keep such a beast happy and healthy. His so called mercy was an act of selfishness that strayed him off the path of divine retribution. All because of one simple act of defiance. All because his heart led him astray, just as it did when he had taken the scourge into himself on behalf of the deep love he had for his people. 

Ardyn saw himself back on the beach in Altissa.  

Love… 

Aera flashed in his head. Her smile, and her blood. 

Look what that got you in the end… 

I warned you long ago Lucis Caelum, thou brings plenty of pain upon amongst himself. 

“The great Ifrit…what an honor to be graced by your riddles and mystery,” Ardyn’s mind bitterly spoke out into the void. While he couldn’t see him, Ardyn could sense the Inferniums spirit and how warm the atmosphere became. “I assume you’ve come to impart more vague threats?”

I take no honor in such intimidation despite thy hatred for thee. 

“How considerate,” Ardyn scoffed. “Our last encounter would suggest otherwise of your intentions.” 

Make no mistake, my wrath will be as swift as my flames when divine timing commences. You know of the purge within your veins unlocking me from this cage. How the scourge has grown weak to protect thee. It is not the king of light who will bring you peace, but I in the end due to mankind's tampering with nature. 

The serum… Ardyn held a belief in his gut the issue with Ifrit was connected to him getting jabbed long ago, and this confirmed all suspicion. He mused to himself at the irony, and didn’t know whether or not to despair or laugh. 

“Then why torture me with your very presence at this moment, shouldn’t you be saving that for your grand entrance when you take over my body?” Ardyn muttered. His eyes glanced around the endless dark, feeling out the vibrations of the hivemind and that of the god that dwelled inside of him. 

Your fear has called to me. 

“My fear?” 

The fear of profound loss. Thou dreads this depravation above mortality. 

“What are you, a shrink?” Ardyn sneered. His sarcastic quip did little to deter Ifrit’s expository as the god continued to speak through thought.

Through thee, I will seek thy own retributions toward mankind and the gods. At such time, I proclaim a hand will never lay upon the soul you miss. 

Ardyn glared and averted his gaze, feeling every fiber of his being--of his soul--wanting to lash out in blind fury. The god of eternal flame certainly knew where to hit a man when he was down, that much Ardyn gave Ifrit credit for. 

“Aera… my Aera is dead,” He muttered with sorrow. “No one can harm what’s gone. Not even the accursed gods can break a spirit beyond the astral realms. I took you as an entity of intelligence, not a mindless beast yet it seems I stand corrected.”

It is not the ancient oracle I speak of. 

Ardyn became dead silent. 

I shall grant thee this one kindness in memory of who thou once was. 

“You know nothing of my feelings!” 

Thy knows enough through your meddling in darkness. 

“Get out of my head!” Ardyn yelled. He suddenly felt the air become humid and felt his soul crawl as if it had been doused in flammable liquid. Through sudden surprise, Ardyn could sense that Ifrit was prepared to light the match. 

Enjoy domain over this god and darkness, Adagium. The end draws near, and I shall bask in the fires of my hatred for thee! 

The voices of daemons began to screech, rattled by Ifrit’s intrusion. The presence of the Infernium disappeared, but the temperature of his spirit remained, and Ardyn felt overheated. Like a runaway vehicle, the sensation slammed into him and shattered like glass. It was as if he had been stranded in a desert, and there was no oasis that would grant him reprieve. He couldn’t sate the pain in his body, nor how parched his mouth had become. However, absolution lay before Ardyn in the form of a blue void that would openly swallow him whole if he chose to dip his feet into the surf. 

The waves of the beach beckoned Ardyn to seek refuge. He could feel it drawing him in like how the very moon controlled the currents. Ardyn rushed into the tides just as he had done before in Altissa until he had fully submerged. Through darkness, he saw a warm glow illuminate the water around him. There were no facial features to be seen coming from this light, but he recognized this presence. He was safe here, so long as he swam forward. 

Y/N…

He woke up. 

Ardyn’s eyes nearly bulged as he shot upward from the chair. Panting in fright, he blinked several times. Every so often he glanced around to ensure he was fixed in reality, and not dwelling within the hivemind or elsewhere. When his body and mind no longer determined an incongruity, Ardyn rubbed his forehead and deeply sighed in relief. He felt his shoulders relax while he slouched further into the seat. 

For a moment Ardyn contemplated how long he had been in the dark. The thought was short lived as he did a double take of the bed, and saw Y/N was missing. His eyes widened as the link between himself and Y/N suddenly became reestablished. Memories and sensations that weren't his suddenly hit him all at once, and Ardyn nearly shouted as he gripped the arms of the chair to stabilize himself.

For several minutes, a rush like adrenaline filled Ardyn’s body from head to toe. He was overwhelmed, beyond stimulated for what felt like eternity until it came to a screeching halt. Through Y/N’s perspective, Ardyn witnessed them falling to the floor in the kitchen. He winced as if he had experienced this for himself.

As soon as he regained control of his own point of view, Ardyn jump into action. He tossed his sketchbook to the mattress nearby and sprinted, not caring if he bumped into anyone or anything. What mattered was meeting Y/N in the middle. What mattered most was seeing them awake and most importantly, alive. 

Once Ardyn ventured through the kitchen door, he came to a grinding stop. Y/N still remained on the ground several feet away, but they held up a hand for him to remain where he was. Confusion placated him as Ardyn raised a brow while catching his breath.

“You’re---”

“Awake, I know,” Y/N interrupted quietly. Their gaze fell to the ground as their body quivered. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I got hungry and came here. The scourge flared a moment ago and I slipped. I guess you felt that, or you wouldn’t have come in running. ” 

Ardyn took a few steps toward them. “Allow me help you back onto your feet.”

“No, no,” Y/N shook their head, their eyes finally peering up toward him as he stopped midway. There was a mutual look of solace, signifying both had missed one another to some capacity despite Y/N's reluctance. 

“Let me handle this, please.”

“Y/N--”

“Ardyn, please just let me have this.”

At first Ardyn was stumped. He couldn’t understand for the life of himself why Y/N was being stubborn. Defeatedly, Ardyn studied Y/N’s features. He noted how bloodshot their eyes were. How tears stained either side of their face. The way their skin both looked rejuvenated and stricken by disease as if trapped between limbo. He felt fear creep up in the form of assumption; worried that Y/N wasn’t out of the woods yet with their coma. However, he couldn’t allow himself to dwell. Not when there was another pressing issue he was contending with: a morbid curiosity if Y/N remembered anything. 

With careful eyes he quietly observed Y/N hobble to their feet, trying to resist the urge to catch them should they fall again. As soon as they stabled themself, did Ardyn speak up.

“It would seem the luster of your pride remains untarnished by your little two week respite.” 

“Was that Ancient Lucian or you talking fancy?” Y/N countered with a tired yet playful scoff. They faintly smiled seeing Ardyn trying to resist grinning at the witty remark. 

“I could put it into laymen’s terms for you?” Ardyn gestured. 

“And ruin your fun nitpicking my head? Nah, that’s not very sportsmanlike.” 

“Ah, a little cranial commentary never harmed anyone, right?” Ardyn chuckled. He let out a breath he had been holding in as repose briefly tangled him up. 

"I saw your sketchbook." Y/N murmured. 

"Beg your pardon?" 

"I didn't know you were an artist." Y/N reiterated, offering a small smile as compensation. 

"Oh," He was taken aback. The redirection having caught him off guard. "I wouldn't assign myself such a title..." 

"Don't be so humble." 

"Far from it," Ardyn mused. He felt his hands shake as his cheeks lightly flushed. He never expected to have been caught by anyone regarding his little hobby. His heart stammered as the recent sketches he had done of Y/N sleeping flashed in his head. Ardyn cleared his throat. "I take it you saw everything?" 

"I know I shouldn't have looked, but...curiosity got the better of me." Y/N shyly shrugged. 

"And?" 

Y/N noted his body tensed, as if bracing himself for a scolding hit. 

"You made me look prettier," Y/N began, reminiscing the few portraits that stood out to them and smiled. "Far more diplomatic than I deserve." 

"And here I spent many a night wondering if I tarnished your image." Ardyn quipped sarcastically. The small smirk he wore hid most of his fright like a shield. 

Y/N shook their head at him. "You can't tarnish what's already tainted."

Ardyn sighed. "Don't you find this sort of duress fatiguing?"

"When I'm around you most of the time, yeah." Y/N nodded, letting out a tired laugh as did he. 

Both became quiet as they felt the scourge sync them up further. The familiarity was a breath of fresh air, and either felt a dull ache had finally been satisfied. There were no words that needed to be spoken, for both felt the same relief as the other. 

“I’ve so dearly missed our little banters as of late.” Ardyn confessed quietly. 

“Me too, I think.” Y/N admitted, letting Ardyn's earlier proclamations sink in as they gulped. "Two weeks, huh?"

“Well, nearly two weeks I should say you’ve been out cold.” Ardyn corrected. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?” 

Ardyn cautiously gazed over Y/N’s form. “I harbor no desire to inundate you. Not in this condition.” 

He could see the frustration instantly come to Y/N’s face, and could sense a bottled tension Y/N had been holding onto for quite some time wanting to spill over. Reluctant to witness such a travesty unfold, Ardyn's mouth opened to speak and found himself surprised when Y/N softly interrupted him. 

“At least,” Y/N paused as their bottom lip trembled. The corners of their eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “At least tell me if Tuti is alright. I know…I know I tried to hurt her.”

"She's fine," Ardyn reassured with a nod. It became clear to him that while he had been in the throes of darkness, Ardyn had failed to keep a tight leash on Y/N's fragile state of mind. A plethora of curses came and went through his body as made an attempt to soften the blow. "Everyone is just fine."

“But I’m not…” Y/N sniffled, wiping their eyes. “I'm sorry. I know the last thing you need right now is to see me crying like this.”

His right hand reached out. “Y/N--”

“It all came back to me when I started eating,” Y/N interrupted. Their voice shook as they began to regale the intrusive memories that flooded them. “I popped a grape into my mouth, and the sudden squishy noise made it come back. All the bodies. The awful stench. How their skin felt sliding down my throat...I know what I did Ardyn. I know what I've done." 

"Let me stop you if only for a moment," Ardyn strongly implored. Keeping his eyes on theirs, Ardyn gently shook his head to emphasize his point. "No one knows what you've done. I've made it so. As far as the public is aware, you lost conscious from having hit your head on the way to the airships. The only souls who know the truth are the dear companions we've kept close, and for the record, Betrys and the Serpent Society--hell, Senator Rodrick and his bride, they've been nuisances wanting to know how you've been fairing. See for yourself in your chambers, it's filled with tributes wishing you well. There's no need to catastrophize."  

"You really think hearing that I received material goods is going to make me feel better?"

"You misconstrued my intention--"

"It doesn't matter," Y/N interrupted again. "There's no coming back from this. You know what the worst part it was? There was some part of me that was still aware, that enjoyed what I was doing to those people! I liked chasing Tuti. I liked it when I scared and then killed those people who tried to harm us. It wasn't my daemon, it wasn't the hivemind, it was all me! It was all me!" 

“Y/N, it’s not as simple as you’re making it out to be! I assure you---”

“Spare me! I should be rotting somewhere, not them! You can’t just---wave a hand and make this...this feeling go away, as you do when you’re dealing with matters as Chancellor! Ardyn, you can’t fix this! No matter how desperately I wish you could, and no matter how earnestly you yearn for it!"

Ardyn’s heart pounded as Y/N’s voice grew hoarse from screaming. The final yell broke them, for they devolved into pained sobs as he watched Y/N turn their back to him. No longer having the courage to look him in the eye, nor face what they had done any further. He flinched upon seeing Y/N weakly hit their head with their own hands until grief held back their self hatred. 

“I shouldn’t have waken up. I shouldn’t--” Y/N shoulders trembled. 

The air hung heavy with the weight of Y/N’s emotions, and Ardyn felt a palpable tension not only in the room but within his body. He was relieved that Y/N couldn’t recall their actions at Outpost 98, but he was quite disappointed in himself that he couldn’t lock away what had happened in Altissa. If only he hadn’t been distracted by Ifrit, of trying to seek answers in darkness, if only he had kept up his concentration, if only he had been more dutiful keeping watch over them in bed, if only…

There was no use. The damage had been done, but now came the tricky part: how to proceed.

Ardyn felt a compulsion to rush to Y/N’s side, but uncertainty held him back. He was caught between a desire to be a supportive presence, fear of encroaching on Y/N’s vulnerability, and wanting to leave Y/N on their own while they settled with their fright. This wasn’t his battle after all. He didn’t have a stake in Y/N’s guilt, but he knew there was no chance in six hells he was going to let that go. No. Not when he could feel the very essence of their humanity, reaching out through the scourge to be forgiven. 

Ardyn hesitated further. He swallowed hard as he began to feel his own emotions mirror the turmoil in the kitchen. Hands twitching nervously at his sides, he took a cautious step forward. The noise was enough to quiet Y/N down, if only for a second. Once the silence cemented for a time, did Ardyn let go. The words left him without a second thought.

“May I hold you?” He asked barely above a whisper. He had never felt this nervous or so resolutely inclined to act on such a powerful impulse. 

Y/N sniffled as their head turned to the side, giving a faint nod. The silent permission granted Ardyn the courage to close the distance between them.

As he approached Y/N, Ardyn placed a hand on their quaking shoulder. Initially startled, he felt emboldened to proceed. Slowly, his hands traveled down Y/N’s sides, securing a hold at their waist before enveloping them in a gentle embrace from behind. His touch was a delicate balance between assurance and tenderness, and he could feel Y/N melt little by little. The fragility he sensed in Y/N stirred a desire to shield them from further harm, to be a source of solace in the midst of uncertainty. He squeezed a little tighter, holding onto Y/N as if they were a fragile bird whose wings had been clipped. His nose softly pressed the back of Y/N's head as he breathed, acknowledging how much he had missed their scent. 

“You’re right,” Ardyn murmured. “You’re a menace. I can’t undo the past nor your actions, and yet I remain at your side.”

“Ardyn--”

“You speak so low of yourself it's utterly exhausting,” He bitterly whispered against their scalp. “I don't move men nor stars for anyone. Do you have any idea of how much I’ve sacrificed on your behalf, the lengths I've gone? Damn you. Damn you for mattering to me." 

"I can't--"

"We will get through this. That's one promise I can keep."

Y/N slowly turned around to face him. His arms still remained securely attached. 

Y/N sniffed while noting the contours of Ardyn's face. There was an unmistakable sadness that echoed in the depths of his golden hues. No amount of glaring nor putting on a strong front could hide it away. His vulnerability only grew when Y/N nonverbally acknowledged the unshed tears glistening in Ardyn's eyes. They had never seen him in such pain before, and it nearly snapped them out of their own melancholic trance. 

"Are you crying?" Y/N's voice trailed they watched Ardyn bite in the inside of his bottom lip. He visibly shook.

“I thought I lost...” He couldn’t finish the words. Not when the gods could so easily come to claim another soul he couldn't be without. His arms adjusted, giving Y/N the opportunity to part ways while a silent understanding was shared. As soon as Y/N reached a hand to touch his face, it was over. 

Y/N found themself reciprocating a tight hug as Ardyn brought their body to his chest and squeezed. His soft lips peppered the side of their forehead while he held them close, not having the courage to let go. 

[iheartgod175]

Hey everyone!

As you may have noticed, I disappeared both on here and on Twitter/X for a week and a few days. Nothing bad happened to me personally, I promise, but I just got hit with the worst case of creator burnout that I’ve ever had. Literally thinking of opening this app was making my head hurt and just sapped away any and all creative energy.

So, I turned off my notifications for the socials that I used and decided to take a week long break to just refocus. I realized, then, that I’d made this app (and creativity as a whole) as an idol. I was relying more on it to be happy and fulfilled rather than focusing on the important things of life (my faith, my family, my responsibilities). On days where I couldn’t create anything, where I couldn’t force my brain to come up with one sentence or one idea to draw, I felt like a failure. That, plus the negative energy maelstrom that is X, contributed to making my anxiety worse.

Over the course of a week, I noticed a change in my mood—I felt much lighter without that pressure on me to make things, to where I could enjoy taking the time to create. I was able to pick up some studies on diligence, and even made headway on chores. I picked up a little writing challenge, which was to challenge myself into starting a new 15-minute writing habit. Overall, I started off small, but it snowballed into me making headway into a WIP that I’ve been putting off for ages. Sure, it’s a rough draft, and sure, I’ll have to go in and make some big edits and changes. But what matters is that I MADE PROGRESS. I actually did something.

But yeah. I don’t have much else to say here, other than I’m sorry for leaving you to worry for so long. But I’m back, and I’m feeling more motivated to create!